


Afterwards

by MoonRiver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Post-The Final Problem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9346469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: Mycroft thinks he has to deal with this alone.Greg disagrees.“Everyone deserves to break down once in a while. I say after tonight you more than deserve it.”Spoilers for the series 4 finale, "The Final Problem". You have been warned!!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft was hands down my favorite part about The Final Problem.
> 
> And by the end I just wanted to hug him. 
> 
> I felt he deserved a little bit more there at the end, so I decided to write this to cope. I know there's gonna be a lot of Mycroft/Greg hurt/comfort fics out there (some very good ones are already popping up!) But I had to do my own, for me. Because Mystrade will always be my headcanon! 
> 
> This is un-betaed. And did I mentioned SPOILERS?

Mycroft swallowed hard, fighting back bile as he finally willed himself to sit up on the hospital bed. He had finally been cleared to leave after hours of exams and observations by his private doctor, and all he wanted to was to be somewhere _alone_ . Not under a microscope, not observed, not played with. Alone.

But first he had to move.

And movement made him feel sick.

He made the mistake of closing his eyes, desperate to fight away the nausea, but he only saw the warden blowing his own brains out. Suddenly his stomach flipped, and he knew he couldn’t stop it. Hands shaking, he grabbed the kidney dish that had been placed by his bed and vomited. He winced as the sour feeling burned through his stomach; when he lifted his head again dizziness took over him. The doctor had offered him something for the nausea but he knew it would do no good.

PTSD was going to have to be a battle he had to fight on his own.  

“Jesus!”

Mycroft jumped at the abrupt sound of Greg Lestrade’s voice. Daring to look up, he was disgusted by the mixture of concern, astonishment, and curiosity on the DI’s face. Groaning, he ran his hands over his face, wishing above all else that he could make himself disappear and magically be back in his own bed.

Of course he could no longer feel safe in his own home now either, could he?

“Are you sure you’re okay to leave?” Greg asked.

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft sighed.

At last he managed to stand and reached for his tie, but as soon as he tried to put one foot in front of another he wavered.

“Careful!” Warned the DI as he reached out to steady him. “Do I need to get your doctor?”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head, his voice practically pleading. “No. I don’t even know why they rang you.”

“It was Anthea,” Greg confessed. “She was concerned. So is your brother.”

He let out a painful bark of laughter- as if he was supposed to believe Sherlock was concerned for him right now. How was he even supposed to know what was real and what wasn’t? Would his own baby brother really have pulled that trigger if Euros hadn’t have confessed that Moriarty predicted it? Would his brother ever forgive him for begging him to kill his own best friend?

“I’ll be fine, I just need some sleep.”

He made the mistake of closing his eyes again.

_Bang._

He let out a violent shudder.

“Mycroft, please,” Greg said softly. “I still don’t understand what happened tonight but you’re clearly in no state to go home alone. Sherlock has John…you should have someone too.”

 _Yes, Sherlock has John,_ he thought bitterly. Sherlock has John and Molly and Mrs Hudson. Who did _he_ have? A “friends with benefits” relationship with Lady Smallwood? ( _Alicia_ , he told himself. _It’s not proper to call the women you sleep with by their formal names_.) He knew she was most likely trying to take advantage of him…just as he always kept a weathered eye open for clues about her secrets, her past and motives. He certainly couldn't imagine having a heart to heart with her about what happened tonight.

No, he had nothing but his career. He had takeaway food and films he watched alone and a library of books only he would like.

He was quite pathetic, actually.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked, placing a hand carefully on his shoulder. “I know you’re not used to this, the _legwork_. I know you saw a man kill himself and I know you saw that man’s wife get killed too.”

_Yes, but I also saw my own brother get physically tortured in Serbia. I saw him pretend to jump off a roof and pretend to kill himself. I saw him turn into a murderer, the one thing I had always wanted to save him from becoming._

“Mycroft, you’re shaking!” Greg was holding him up with both hands now. “Let’s sit you down. I’ll call for the doctor.”

“NO!”

The power of his own voice even startled himself. Yes, he was shaking. Trembling violently. But this wasn’t him. He needed to get it together. He was the strong one, the sober one, the cruel one. He was supposed to be able to handle things like _murder_ and mind games. He sent agents into battle all the time, knowing full well he was sending them to their death. He did it because he had to, he did it for the greater good, and he knew he had to deal with this too. He had no choice.

Somehow it seemed by the look of desperation in Greg’s eyes that he saw right through him.

“You don’t have to be the bigger person right now, you know,” said Greg. “Everyone deserves to break down once in a while. I say after tonight you more than deserve it.”

He closed his eyes again- _bang!-_ and was only angry at himself for still seeing it.

Death.

One would think by now he was used to it following him around.

Maybe it had all finally become too much.

“It’s going to consume you,” the DI announced, “if you refused to accept help, if you refuse to talk to anyone. You’ll start with the nightmares. Then the hallucinations. Sherlock had them, after he got back, did you know that? He kept thinking he heard John while he was on cases. I figured during all that time away he probably started convincing himself that his best mate was right there with him. I imagine you already won’t be able to eat for a couple days, at least. The guilt will settle in. And every time you see your brother or John Watson, every time you _think_ about them you’ll relieve everything. You know it’s coming, so don't go through this alone. Let me help you.”

He hadn’t noticed that under the warm touch of Greg’s hands that the trembling had stopped.

His breath hitched.

He had always felt this odd connection with the DI- it’s why he tolerated him. He always assumed it had to do with Sherlock: they both cared so deeply for his brother, had both seen him at his worst, had both fought to get him clean. He had a great deal of respect for Greg. But Mycroft had never exactly been _friendly_ with him. No, instead he just ordered him around, guilt tripped him into helping Sherlock, sent him on wild goose chases and sometimes into mortal danger.

Greg had absolutely no reason to be here except that he was clearly secretly intimidated by Mycroft’s PA.

Why did he care so much?

“Why are you here?” He asked, this time calmly, sincerely.

The other man simply shrugged.

“I suppose I care about you,” he confessed. “We’ve known each other for some time now. I know you haven’t really got anyone, besides Sherlock and your parents- and I imagine they’re the last people you want to have to deal with right now.”

He closed his eyes again, and this time all he saw was how disappointed and disgusted his parents would be when they found out he had lied to them about their daughter being dead.

“It wasn’t easy for me,” he whispered, though no one had asked. “I didn’t enjoy keeping her a secret.”

“I know,” Greg nodded.

But how could he know? How could he possibly understand what it was like to secretly keep his own sister locked up in an isolated facility for _decades_? To watch her grow, knowing how much his mum would love to see what her daughter looked like now- even if she was a psychopath.

“I thought it would be easier for them,” he went on, though he knew Greg hardly had any idea what he was really going on about. “I thought if they thought she was dead they could finally find closure."

His mum had spent years physically ill over it and fell into terrible depression. Father practically became mute. Sherlock…

Sherlock had been so distraught, so traumatised, so _changed_ by what happened that he made himself forget it all.

Then he went on to live a life where he was still teased for who he was, where people more powerful and dangerous than Euros hunted him down and wanted him dead.

“I should have been a better big brother,” he muttered.

“Mate,” Greg said, shaking his head, “you were just a kid. You’ve kept all this inside so long. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to be hard. And no, it’s not going to be easy dealing with your parents. And yeah, it’ll be different between you and Sherlock and even you and John. But you should have someone on your side. At least tonight. At least this week. Please? Let me take care of you.”

He slowly shifted his eyes up, feeling desperately weak as they met Greg’s. He had never had someone beg to take care of him before.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for what your sister did,” Greg continued calmly. “You can’t keep blaming yourself when Sherlock relapses. You’re just a man, Mycroft. You’re just human. And I don't care what you think, alone is no way to live your life. So come on. Let someone help you, for a change.”

Numbness began to take over him, and he knew it was his body’s way of saying _please take him up on it, I need a break_. Suddenly he couldn’t imagine having the strength to walk up the staircase to his room, let alone cook for himself or look out for himself.

“There might be quite a bit of vomiting involved,” he admitted. “Apparently I have a very weak stomach.”

“I promise I’ve seen worse,” Greg replied, forcing a smile.

Mycroft didn’t have the heart to smile back, knowing that by ‘worse’ he meant all the nights he spent with Sherlock while he went through withdrawal.

In the end, deep down he knew he had no choice. It was either this or have one of his bloody minions look after him. At least Greg wouldn’t report back to his office about what colour pants he wore.

“Fine,” Mycroft finally sighed.

“Brilliant!” Greg grinned. “Your people are insisting they have someone drive us back to your place, security and all.”

“No!” He blurted out.

He shuddered, thinking of the clown his brother had hired. He shuddered just thinking of the dark empty halls of the house that was five times too big for a single man to live in, with its many rooms and windows where anyone could get into if they really tried. He didn’t want to be somewhere where people would know he would be. It was cowardly, it was pathetic, but he just couldn’t help but to not feel safe.

“Alright,” Greg said cautiously, clearly not wanting him to change his mind. “How about my flat, then? I know you have security detail on it. I’ve still got just the one room, but I can take the sofa and you can take my bed.”

A strange, prickling, feeling ran down his spine at the thought of sleeping in the DI’s bed. He didn’t understand why.

“The sofa will be fine,” he lied.

Greg nodded, clearly not daring to protest in fear of him changing his mind.

“Right. That’s settled then. You can stay as long as you’d like- as long as you need to. Anthea’s instructed me to tell you that you have two days off, paid, no arguments. More if you need it and _I’m_ to let her know if I think you need it.”

Mycroft groaned. At the least couldn’t he busy himself with some paperwork?

“I’m taking a couple days as well,” Greg offered. His eyes twinkled as he added: “If you really think you’ll be _that_ bored you can help me with _my_ paperwork.”

Sometimes he didn’t give the DI enough credit.

“Fine,” Mycroft sighed again.

He finally mustered the energy he needed to grab his coat; he was disgusted by how filthy his own clothes felt. He’d have to burn this suit. Perhaps Greg had some clothes he could borrow. It wouldn’t be the perfect fit but…

His thoughts stopped short as he realised what would happen if Sherlock were to happen to decide to break into Greg’s flat while he was wearing the DI’s clothes.

“Just one thing,” Mycroft asked, “can you not tell Sherlock about this? Tell him I’m being looked after…but I don’t want to start rumors.”

Greg frowned.

“Rumors about what?”

Mycroft shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He and Greg were barely friends, let alone…

“Nothing,” he lied.

He was really starting to lose his mind. He hadn’t even had a male partner in years- a decade, at least- he couldn’t be weak enough to assume one act of kindness such as watching over him after a trauma _meant_ anything.

“Come on,” Greg announced. “Sod your minions, we’ll take my car.”

Neither man said another word as he allowed Greg to place one arm around his shoulder and one around his waist and lead him out of the building. By the time they reached Greg’s sedan he felt drowsy again; he could feel his body sitting down.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg spoke up suddenly as he started the car. “Do you need anything on the way? From the pharmacy or Tesc-“

But as soon as his head had hit the cool glass the eldest Holmes sibling had passed out, falling into one of the many nightmares that would haunt him for weeks and years to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!


End file.
